Hushed is the magic of his touch
That waked the soul to joyous praise!
The vibrant strain we loved so much
Still echoes on throughout the days;
Days that had sped in steady round
Thrilled by the songs his bow had bound.
Stilled is the music to our ears.
In higher cycles, we believe,
Brighter than earthly crown appears
His genius, and shall meed receive:
While in a rarer, fuller light,
His touch still wakens to delight.
Then is he not as one who dies
And whose brief day is ended here;
For, in those worlds which Time defies,
His melody grows still more clear;
Then is he not as one whose light
Is darkened by Death's envious night!
Thus while we wear within our thought
The beauty of his god-like art
That here in eager longing sought
To voice the music in his heart,
O bear in mind no truth divine
Of art is lost—it needs must shine
Across the waste of shipwrecked lives
As o'er the brightest path below;
Where'er its meaning steadfast strives
To sing its measure's stately flow,
For Life is art—as art is Life—
And soars above unequal strife!
He gave to man the measure free
The gods had given to his soul;
And, touched to deeper ecstasy,
Bound Music to his sweet control.
O Artist true! we deem thy death
But entrance into fuller breath.
But fuller grasp of thy great work;
But deeper draughts from wells divine,
Where disappointment ne'er may lurk,
Where round thy head the glories shine
Which crowns endeavor firm and true,
And gives thee roses—never rue!
Here do we leave thee with thy brow
Encircled with the roses sweet;
Victory's token, crowning now
Thine art with all our praises meet;
Here do we leave thee, victor still,
For Art bends not to Death's stern will!